


Going Under

by reapertownusa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Bondage, Cock & Ball Torture, Dubious Consent, Gangbang, Humiliation, M/M, Nudity, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Spanking, Strapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2012-06-15
Packaged: 2017-11-26 22:13:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reapertownusa/pseuds/reapertownusa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To help his family with money, Dean takes a job on a fishing boat, but there's a serious misunderstanding in his job description.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going Under

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings / kinks: Dub-con, gangbang, prostitution, bondage, cbt, first time, humiliation, spanking / strapping
> 
> Author’s Note: This is pre-series, 19 year old Dean. As for the story, or lack thereof (can you say PWP with a side helping of WTF?) I have no explanation aside from the fact that I've been hammering away at my very gen big bang and over analyzing every bit of everything for months now.
> 
> I got a PM form the mod at kink_bingo the other day saying if I posted something I could play in next round so last night I decided to write...something. Like whatever popped into my head that I could write in one night (how or why I actually typed this many words of a non-story in one night I'm not entirely sure) because I'm really supposed to be finishing my big bang. This is a saner (albeit, obviously unedited) version of what popped into my head (you can all thank me for sparing you from the original mayhem) done for the Hello Sailor! gift basket to the prompts obedience, prostitution / sex work, gangbang.
> 
> This is seriously nothing but horny old sea dogs getting their jollies off on a young, tormented Dean.

The cigarette’s tip flared red in the low light of the wheelhouse. Outside, rain pelted sideways against dirty windows. Angry skies and grey seas bled together indistinguishably.

A thoughtful sound rumbled in the captain’s throat as he lowered the cigarette from his lips and flicked the ashes to fall beside Dean’s boot.

Dean’s eyes fixed on the floor, watching the ashes rain down without actually seeing them. His senses were on high alert, silently taking in the unfamiliar surroundings of the large fishing vessel.

On the deck, the salty air was weighed down with the smell of fish and exhaust fumes. Inside the cabin, the smells of the sea were dampened by tobacco and coffee and sweat.

The waves reared high, before dropping the boat again. Dean had to reposition his feet to preserve his footing without reaching out to grab the captain’s chair. It was half a matter of pride, half self preservation.

The captain was already too close and not taking no for an answer. He’d be rolling on the floor clutching his gut and sporting a broken nose if Dean had his way.

No woman eyed him with such intensity without getting in bed. No man did it without getting a kick in the ass if he didn’t back the hell off, but no one was backing down here and no part of the choice was truly Dean’s.

“It’s bad luck to have a woman aboard a ship.”

Dean’s eyes darted up. He raised his chin and crossed his arms over his chest. Sammy was one to spout useless facts, but this captain didn’t seem the type. He hadn’t said much since Dean had come aboard, less that Dean had wanted to hear.

“But on these long trips, my men can’t be expected to go without,” the captain continued. He leaned forward in his chair, eyes nailing him with a stare that simultaneously pissed Dean off and drove him further to silence. “I paid your father a healthy advance to have you serving on my crew and I ain’t telling you again. Get on your goddamn knees and suck me, you little prick.”

Dean flexed his fists and wanted to swing. He forced his hands to unclench. With a painful swallow, he choked down the last of his pride. His eyes dropped again, his lashes shielding his uneasy gaze.

“I don’t know how.”

“Bullshit!” A fist slammed heavy on the armrest of the captain’s chair. Dean flinched. "You stop fucking with me, boy.”

The man crushed out the cigarette, tossed the used butt aside into a crusty coffee mug and pushed out of his chair. He wasn’t a heavy man, but he was large and moved far faster than Dean would’ve given him credit for.

A strong hand clamped over Dean’s neck. His mind, body, every inch of his being, screamed to fight back, but he didn’t. He let the man slam him against the bulkhead and blinked away the tears that reflexively sprang to the corner of his eyes as his head thudded against the steel.

The fingers digging into his throat eased just as Dean began struggling for air. He was still gasping when he felt the stiff beard scrape over his cheek.

Nausea rolled in his gut, not from the tumble of the waves, but letting himself acknowledge how much like Dad the captain looked. Rougher around the edges, probably a decade older, though it was enough that Dean’s resolution faltered.

“If I gotta get my money back from your daddy, your better believe I’ll be taking back far more than I gave him.”

Dean knew Dad needed the cash. They had to ease up on the credit trail and wouldn’t have shacked up in the crap port town without a hunt in sight if things hadn’t been nearing a breaking point.Dad had been running himself ragged to scrape up enough to get by and Dean had been struggling to hide just how bad things were from Sammy.

They’d met the captain at a bar they’d been working. The guy had creeped Dean out from the minute he’d felt the eyes on his back, but apparently he’d been an old hunting buddy of Dad’s so Dean had kept the commentary to himself. The guy had bought Dad a drink and before Dean had finished another round of pool, Dad had been behind him telling him he was shipping out.

Dean had never even been on a fishing boat, had crap all for experience and the captain was still shelling out wads of cash to welcome Dean to the crew. It hadn’t sounded so bad until Dean had heard the timeframe.

Three weeks.

Three fucking weeks alone. Three weeks not knowing if Sammy and Dad were okay or if they'd killed each other. 

They’d never stayed three weeks anywhere and a voice in the back of Dean’s head still whispered that Dad wasn’t staying that long this time either. A hunt would call. Reality would set in. He’d finally discover that they never had needed Dean.

The immediacy of his own reality had pushed that fear to the background when the captain had handed him a pair of deck boots and told him to put them on after he’d stripped everything else off.

Not that it mattered. 

Unless he was swimming back to shore and fucking this all up for Dad, then he was going to have to shut it and do as he was told.

This wasn’t what Dad had signed him up for, Dean was mostly sure of that. Dad hadn’t been sober enough to have seen the look in the captain’s eyes and read between the lines. But it didn’t matter because intended or not, this was still what Dad needed him to do.

Dean’s tongue ran uncertainly over his lips.

It wasn’t like he didn’t know the theory behind a blow job. He’d gotten more than a few himself through high school. Of course he knew what it should feel like, which was damn good, but receiving didn’t necessarily translate into knowing how to give it. That reality seemed to finally register with the captain.

“You gotta be shitting me. You ain’t never...?” The captain’s raspy laugh filled the wheelhouse, rivaling the crashing waves below. He backed off, slapping his thigh as he turned away from Dean. “On second thought - save it. I’ll take my turn when those lips are well and swollen and the boys below have whipped the teeth scraping out of ya. If not for that pretty face you’d be damned near worthless.”

Dean already knew that, but the words still cut short any feeling of reprieve Dean might have won by the captain backing down. The mocking laughter stung his ears.

He sucked at a lot of things, but when it came to sex, he wasn’t incompetent. Dean had plenty of experience. He sure as hell wasn’t the virgin kid that the captain thought he was smirking at.

“You ever even been fucked?”

Dean bristled at the question. “Way more than your ugly ass, you stupid son of a bitch.”

The sharp crack of backhand caught Dean’s cheek. His head snapped to the side. Blood coated his tongue where his tooth had torn his lip. He spit onto the floor then clamped his mouth shut.

“And here I’d always thought John had sense about raising you boys.” The captain’s fingers moved nimbly to unfasten his belt, jerking it easily from his pant loops. “Like I got nothing better to do than his own damn job.”

Dean’s stomach lurched as he watched the captain double over the wide strap of leather. It was the only thing that stopped Dean from beating the guy bloody for insulting his Dad. He forced himself to surrender, to push down the fight that wanted to rear up and accept whatever he had coming.

This was an old friend of Dad’s, who had given his father and brother enough cash to live well until Dean returned, and the promise of more if Dean could keep it together and Dad cared enough about the money to stick around.

As long as Dean was on this boat, he had to follow the captain’s orders as if they were coming from his own father’s mouth.

“You strip that ass bare.”

Without giving Dean time to comply, the man jerked him forward, pulling him away from the safety of the bulkhead. Dean’s breaths came short and shallow as he let himself be bent over the captain’s chair. His moist eyes squeezed closed.

With a hard swing and a practiced hand, the captain snapped the belt over Dean’s ass. Two more times in rapid succession over the same spot and it didn’t matter that there was denim between the leather and his skin.

“Strip the rest of yourself while you’re at it,” the captain added as he jerked Dean upright and tossed him back against the console.

Dean stumbled, but caught his footing easily enough. Still, the pain where his lower back caught the edge of the navigation station warred with the aching in his ass. His hands hung loose at his side, unwilling to take the order his own brain was sending.

The captain tightened his grip on the belt. “If I have to ask again, it’s your balls that are taking the beating.”

A tumble of the ship, as much as the words, threw Dean from his stupor. He caught himself beside the wheel and only distantly let himself wonder if he was the sole reason the captain had ordered the crew to drop anchor.

Dean threw off his t-shirt. The captain had earlier already talked him out of his jacket and flannel. His boots were kicked off and his jeans a tangle on the floor several seconds later. There was no reason to draw out the inevitable.

Whatever whipping he was about to receive would hardly be the worse he’d ever gotten. The captain had also already made it clear that Dean would be kissing his clothes goodbye for the time he was at sea.

Dean could take anything the captain had to give because Dad and Sammy needed him to. For them, he only clamped his jaw tight as the captain stepped closer.

Silently, Dean stood his ground, his bare feet firmly planted in water and grit tracked into the wheelhouse by dirty boots. The winds pushing in through the door rocked a shiver through his body, raising the hairs on his exposed skin. The coldness of the night sunk into his bones.

Only the dragging of smooth leather over his bare thigh distracted him from the temperature. The captain walked around him, making the already cramped space feel as if it was closing in on him.

Dean risked a glance at the man. Slowly, it register that a whipping was the least of what he had coming, but it was still apparently the first order of business.

The captain didn’t bother with words before bending Dean over again. He didn’t give a warning before driving the leather down over his upturned ass.

Just Dean’s own weight had the exposed metal of the armrests he was draped over digging into his chest and lower stomach, nearly too low to be bearable. All Dean could do was grip the chair to try to keep the belt’s licks from driving him further forward to rest on his groin.

They came harder and faster than Dean would have thought possible. He’d been in worse pain, but not from an ass beating. It had never occurred to him that those times Dad had laid into him, he’d been holding back.

Tears stung at his eyes, not from the burn that had his ass clenching and shoulders flinching at every strike of the leather. It wasn’t the steady, resounding slap of the belt, which filled the wheelhouse louder than the driving rains. 

It was frustration and shame and a fear he wouldn’t admit to that had his trembling fingers gripping the chair harder.

The strapping stopped abruptly as a blast of wind filled the cabin, clearing out the lingering smoke and bringing in a chill of foggy marine air. Heavy boots dragging in were barely audible over the waves, but the laughter that followed a moment later rung in Dean’s ears loud and clear.

“Lordy, Captain.” The new man’s chuckle wasn’t as crass as the captain’s. If Dean had been in any other position, he might of thought it friendly. “This must be our new greenhorn. A fine catch, sir.”

Dean used his forearms to wipe his cheeks as he sensed the other man stepping closer. He grunted as a firm, cold hand landed hard over both cheeks of his fiery backside.

Chilled fingers traced down his heated skin. He failed to stop the shocked gasp in his throat as those fingers closed around his balls, thumb stroking.

Another laugh and Dean buried his face in the crook of his elbow and choked a sob before it could rise into his throat. His cock, already half-hard despite his best efforts, twitched at the additional attention.

The captain grunted. “Boy needs to learn his manners.”

“Who the fuck cares about manners with an ass like this?” the other man asked. “How’s the front end?”

“Have a look for yourself.”

Dean unburied his face as he heard the man walk around. The fingers had begun to warm by the time they gripped Dean’s jaw. His head was jerked up, high enough to strain his neck.

He didn’t really look at the man, didn’t really want to see him. It was all he could do to not pull his head away as the man’s rough thumb, salty and marinated in fish guts, rubbed along Dean’s quivering lower lip.

“Are they as good as they look?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw the captain give a dismissive shrug. A lighter’s flame flared as the captain lit another cigarette. “Apparently he ain’t never used them.”

“That’s a good one,” the man laughed.

“It’s no never mind to me. I don’t have your patience for greenhorns. Not for their mouths anyway.”

Dean’s breath was still in his chest as the captain again disappeared behind him. He jerked as he felt hard hands grasp his throbbing ass, prying apart the cheeks and spreading him open.

The man in front of him put a hand on Dean’s shoulder, still chuckling beneath his breath. “The kid’s coiled tight enough to snap. You done scaring the shit out of him?”

Dad had taught him better than to get up without permission, but he raised his head enough to look between the two men. The captain just gave a puff of his cigarette, eyes still fixed on Dean’s ass.

A shiver traveled down his spine. He struggled not to reveal how much his chest was heaving as the other man kept rubbing his hand over Dean’s shoulder. Finally he stopped, only to grasp Dean’s chin again and raise his eyes to meet his.

“I’m the first mate of this fine ship,” he said. “You can call me Jeff in here, it’s ‘sir’ in front of the rest of the crew, got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Dean rasped, grimacing at the weakness in his own voice.

“You disobey a direct order or slow down production once we’re on the way and you’ll find yourself right back here. If you screw around and put anyone in danger, you’ll end up strapped to the bait station and we’ll let the crew make a day of it. We clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now let’s be clear on one other thing the captain no doubt neglected to mention,” Jeff said with a smirk. “You’re not the ship’s slave, kid. You’re a paid crewman, just like everyone else here. Handsomely paid, I might add. You’re here to service the crew.”

He’d come aboard to serve with the crew, not to service them. A key distinction that was too late to correct.

“But it’s on your terms,” Jeff continued. “You don’t want to fill a request, say no and move on to the next. Anyone tries to push you or hurt you in a way that don’t clear up in a week or so, they’re going to be the ones taking a strap.”

Jeff’s tone was easy, almost peaceful like Pastor Jim’s. Dean’s brow creased as he studied the man’s face. He looked down as a sinking sensation settled into the pit of his stomach. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe the guy, the first mate seemed sincere enough, but his words left Dean’s head swimming.

The notion of being beaten and raped by the ship’s crew had made sense to him. It fit with what he knew of the world. This didn’t.

He’d been hired on as the ship’s whore.

They seemed to think he should know that so something Dad had told them had made them believe he was some kind of damn prostitute. For a moment, his mind raced with the question of whether or not Dad knew, but he dropped it because it didn’t matter and the captain’s next words emphasized just that.

“But you also need to be damn clear on the fact that every time you say no, it comes straight out of your pay and that’s less your old man’s gonna see.”

Dean heard the rustling of someone digging through a drawer. A moment later, something cool and moist pressed against his hole. He clenched his ass in protest and nearly shot out of the chair.

A heavy hand slapped down over his tender ass. “You calm down,” the captain barked.

He could only tense further as something pushed harder into him. Panic rippled through him. He shot a look over his shoulder to see the captain trying to shove a finger inside him.

Dean cursed beneath his breath, hands gripping the chair again.

“You being so damn experienced with fucking, you’ll be fine with just some lube and no stretching, right?”

Dean bit down on his lip. The blood had dried there but the trickle renewed as he chewed on it. He didn’t even know what the captain was asking or what he was trying to do.

All he knew was what saying no meant and regardless of what Dad had known when he’d signed him aboard this crew, Dean wasn’t going to let him down.

Dean tried and failed to instill some confidence in his reply. “Yeah, right. That’s fine.”

"You are a stubborn little shit, aren' t ya? Well, you torn up ain't gonna do me any damn good.”

Dean still didn't know what the captain was saying. He’d agreed with guy and the captain was still pissed. Instead of arguing with a man he obviously couldn’t please, Dean just zipped his mouth and tried not to squirm too much.

Whatever crap the captain had stuffed in his ass was slick and slimy. His bare feet were kicked further apart by heavy boots. He clenched against the intrusion as the finger again forced inside him. It abruptly pulled out.

He let out a startled yelp as a hand slammed down over his sit spot, the reign of barrages continued until Dean's legs were reflexively jerking at every iron swat and he had to be pinned in place to take them.

"You're gonna have a lot of cocks shoving into you and I'm not taking you back to shore bled out. You either stop tensing or you'll be spending the rest of this trip cutting bait and sleeping in the storage closet.”

He was receiving the worst blistering of his life naked beneath two old guys that wanted to shove stuff up his ass. Bait prep and a defensible location sounded like heaven. But it wouldn't get Dad the money he needed.

The captain rightly took Dean’s silence to mean compliance and pushed on.

He zoned out, let the finger ease inside him. As one finger turned to two he was taking the Impala apart and putting her back together in his mind. It almost seemed half survivable until he heard a zipper being undone.

Dean strangled a whimper when he knew it was no longer just fingers teasing his opening. The heat of an erection pressed into him more forcefully than the fingers had. Hard hands gripped his hips, holding them steady as Dean tried to edge away.

His eyes watered. He tried to blink them dry and swallow down panic. Pain he could deal with, but this wasn’t a pain he knew.

This was his insides being torn open, him pinned beneath a stranger who didn’t define fucking in the same way Dean did, not that he was about to open his mouth and say so. Not that actual words would come out if he tried.

“You want me to stop?” the captain asked.

Dean’s mind screamed yes, but he shook his head, blanked his mind and settled in as the movements inside him grew quicker, claiming, pounding relentlessly. The captain’s balls smashed against Dean’s aching skin only to pull away and slam into him again.

“Goddamn greenhorn’s worth every penny.”

The words were distant. It was the first mate’s hand rubbing over the nape of Dean’s neck that pulled him back from the haze of oblivious agony. It wasn’t until then Dean realized he was shaking and that the captain was no longer inside him.

“You okay?” Jeff asked.

“Fine,” Dean spat. “Just cold.”

The second part was true. He was freezing, far beyond the cold room temperature alone could bring. It was a cold that started on the inside and reached it’s way out.

“You want your clothes?”

Every fiber of his being screamed yes, but he again shook his head.

He could barely acknowledge what he was being asked. His mind was too overwhelmed with a mash of pain and confusion to process anything, not even the fact that there was another cock already in front of his face.

“Alrighty, but before you we let you out to play with the big boys, you gotta prove the captain wrong about those lips of yours.”

Dean didn’t even try to comprehend the words, didn’t have to as the actions were dictated for him. As he was still trying to regain his ability to breathe, the leaking cock just outside of the corner of his vision came forward, swiping precome over his bloodied lip.

Jeff supported Dean’s chin, parting his lips enough to slide inside. Dean’s face crinkled in revulsion at the salty taste of the cock sliding over his tongue and the musky odor of a man’s crouch way the hell too close to his nose.

When he worked past the instant need to spit out the thing, too large to breath around, he let himself accept that the smell and taste weren’t as foreign as he wanted to think. He’d been on his knees working his tongue through the folds of more than one girl. They’d just never pushed in far enough to gag him.

“Watch those teeth,” Jeff warned. “The boys downstairs will flog you for that.”

Dean bit down a retort. If the douche bag didn’t want teeth next to his cock he shouldn’t stick it in someone’s mouth.

Frustration aside, he knew was the bastard meant. He’d had a girl suck him who was all teeth. She might as well been sandpapering his dick. At least he’d been polite enough to just never call her back.

The thrusting didn’t let up as Dean struggled to find a position that kept his teeth out of the way, finally curling his sore lips over them when he sucked in the shaft. He tried to remember what he liked and worked his tongue from memory. From the obscene sounds the man was making, he couldn’t be too far off.

Dean gagged hard when the man came in his mouth. It wasn’t the amount of fluid, just that it tasted foul and was spraying the back of his throat. The pulsating cock jerked forward towards his tonsils.

The man held his head still even as Dean choked. He didn’t allow him the room to pull back, making it more than clear what was expected of him. Dean fought through until he could manage to swallow.

“He’s a quick learner,” Jeff said as he tugged Dean up. “He’ll figure it out.”

The room seemed to spin and not from the tipping of the waves. Dean was too light headed to see straight and this time did have to steady himself on the captain’s chair until the disorientation and nausea passed.

It wasn’t until he blinked to clear his vision that he realized Jeff was still gripping his arm. Dean nodded that he was fine, shaking off the grip before fixing his eyes back to the floor, silently begging himself to wake up.

It didn’t work.

His throat was still raw and his lips sore. Every part of his ass, inside and out, felt as if it was on fire and he was still standing naked in front of a couple of old dudes leaking sticky fluids that made him want to hurl.

“Good enough anyway,” the captain grumbled. “Get those boots on so you don’t slip off the side of the ship and report to the bait station. Brian will fix you up. Go on now.” The man landed a sharp strike to Dean’s ass. “Get the hell out of my wheelhouse and get to work.”

The order sent Dean scrambling for the boots he’d been provided with. He fumbled to get them on, just glad they didn’t have laces that needed tying. His gaze darted to the pile of clothing he’d thrown on the floor. He blinked his eyes and forced himself to turn away.

Dean was in too much in a hurry to get out of the wheelhouse to bother asking where the bait station was. He was pretty sure he knew and didn’t really care.

As soon as he opened the door, the sideways rain hit his body in sheets. The ridiculousness of reality hit next.

Dean was standing buck ass naked on the deck of a fishing boat in the middle of the Atlantic with just a pair of goulashes in search of another horny Gorton’s fisherman to fuck him. It should be nothing but a bad joke, but he’d never felt so unsure of himself.

He was fucking terrified and so pissed off he was shaking. It was stupid. They were just humans and they weren’t even trying to hurt him. They were just out for themselves and didn’t care and that was nothing new.

The wind buffeted against him as he forced himself to walk ahead. His steps were awkward as he limped. He tried not to shift his legs too much as he walked to avoid tugging everything that was already throbbing, but he had to stagger to keep his footing on the swaying deck.

Salt spray splashed over the edges of the ship’s rails. The night had become dark enough that they seemed to be bobbing in a sea of black. The world had closed in to be just him and this ship and all the hell it entailed. 

Even with the gription of his boots, the deck boards were slick. The beating of the rain froze him to the point his fingers were going numb. He welcomed the numbness and the shower of water to wash the smells of the wheelhouse from his tainted skin. Desperately, he tried to summon enough saliva into his dry mouth to spit the taste of come from his tongue.

“Over on this way, son,” a gruff old voice called out to him. “A land lover like you ought not be walking so close to the edge.”

Dean kept quiet about the fact he wouldn’t mind being swept overboard. He'd rather be drowning or being eaten by sharks. He'd rather be anywhere but here.

He squinted through the wind and rain in the direction of the voice. A stout man stood in a full rain slicker working undercover at a table loaded with diced up fish guts.

As Dean stumbled his way over to him, the man stabbed his boning knife into a headless fish, jerked off his gloves and grabbed a bundle of rope. His hands were gnarled as wood, his skin like leather from years of exposure.

“Let’s get a look at you.”

The man, who Dean had to assume was Brian, took his arm and directed him to spin around. He set his hand Dean’s ass. It felt like ice against his hot skin.

“Captain warmed you proper. Don’t you worry none about it, every good greenhorn needs some breaking in. Now steady yourself against this wall for me. It’ll help cool that skin some and keep you out of the rain.”

Dean didn’t even try to open his mouth. He just tried to focus his eyes enough to see where the man was pointing.

Again, he ignored every instinct he had, every lesson his father had drilled into him. He backed against the wall even as a man walked towards him, unwinding a bundle of rope with the knife now gripped in his teeth.

The man didn’t hesitate in grabbing a hold of Dean’s cock like it was just another chunk of meat at his bait station. Dean edged closer to panic, his muscles twitching with the urge to fight. That was until shame swallowed him at the realization that his cock was far more erect than he’d realized.

Dean flinched as the man’s other hand came up to rub over the flat of his stomach, nodding in appreciation. The old geezer was seriously creeping him out. There weren't enough showers in the world. 

His fists tightened as the old bastard started stroking his cock. Despite the way he’d been looking at Dean, his movements were all business. His fingers expertly closed around Dean’s partially hardened shaft and quickly jerked it to full attention.

By the time the man let go, Dean was panting, legs spread, head pressed back into the wall behind him. He only opened his eyes when the movements stopped abruptly, leaving him on edge. Hard enough to ache, but not close enough to come.

His vision was blurry as he watched the old man loop the end of the nylon rope behind his balls and around front to the base of his cock. He tied a knot, giving it a firm tug that drew a ragged whimper from Dean’s throat.

With the skilled rope work of a seaman, the man worked the line up Dean’s cock. He crossed and knotted to pull the binds tighter around his erection, each jostled movement hardening Dean further.

Another loop beneath the head of his rigid cock pulled taut before the rope was worked back down to again circle his balls. His thighs were trembling by the time the rope was pulled up to loop around each individual ball, forcing them separate as the knot was jerked tight.

Every part of his groin was left throbbing, tightly constrained and desperate for release. The man’s only answer was to pat the last knot before slapping Dean’s bound balls.

His knees nearly buckled.

Dean's breath stilled as the man took the knife from his mouth and set the blade beside his cock. The man looped the rope over the knife and sawed it free before returning the knife to his teeth and turning Dean around, pressing him forward into the wall.

“You look like a slippery herring. Don’t want you getting any ideas.”

Dean’s cheek pressed against the cold metal as a rope was looped around his wrist. His other wrist was pulled to join the first, binding them tightly together.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been bound. The knotting was loose in comparison to the circulation restricting binds tied by monsters wanting to use him as bait. He used that thought to suppress the urge to fight free before the knots were set, but it grew harder the higher up the ropes were looped.

The braided nylon didn’t stop at his wrists, but wrapped up his arms. It looped and knotted, jerking his limbs together until his elbows were nearing each other. His shoulder joints were strained to the point he thought they'd pop out.

“Wiggle your fingers for me.”

Dean automatically did as instructed. Emotional self-preservation forced him to empty his mind. He was not longer in a headspace to calculate, only to accept orders given.

“That’ll do.”

The old man’s fingers rubbed over the slickened skin of Dean’s inner thighs. Dean parted his legs like the captain had silently directed him and pressed his cheek further against the wall as fingers again forced up into the crease of his ass.

He focused his tension into biting his lip, eased his already throbbing internal muscles to allow the fingers’ invasion.

“And you’re already slicked up. Good then.”

The hand pulled away and Dean was turned back around. He stood as still as possible with the bouncing of the deck.

After a couple of tugs to the knots constraining Dean’s cock, the man stepped aside to grab the door latch. It took a good jerk to pull it open against the wind then the man gestured for Dean to move through the doorway.

“Ladies first.”

This time, the old sailor’s insult rolled off him. If he didn’t think about this, if he just did what was asked and lost himself in the sensation of it, fed into the pain then it wouldn’t be any different than anything else he was used to.

So he didn’t think about where he was going or what had just happened. He didn’t try to make sense of it or put it into perspective.

Instead, Dean focused on the cold rain beating against his aching skin. He felt the water trailing down his legs and filling the boots that already sloshed on his feet, being at least a size too big. They would’ve fit Dad. They didn’t fit him.

When the door clanked shut behind them he let himself pretend the relative warmth of the hallway was a relief. He shook his head as water continued to roll into his eyes. Droplets shed from his soaked hair and pooled from his skin to make a puddle where he stood.

The corridor was tight, more restrictive than even the back of the Impala. Just the thought of the car, a glance to Sam’s amulet still hanging at this neck, twisted him again in knots.

He could do what he had to in order to survive here, but he was going to have to go back and face his brother and pretend it was okay. He’d have to pretend to not care that this was what his father thought he was worth, that it was all he was worth.

A hand guiding his shoulder forward pulled him back to now. It directed him to bend down in the narrow stairwell. With no use of his arms to support him, the position left him no choice but to kneel.

The metal plating scraped his bare knees as he tried to steady himself. He leaned forward over the steep steps, using his chest and shoulders as a brace. His head rested on one of the muck-covered steps, dirtying his cheek.

He was thankful for the wetness of the rain that still lingered on his face and the clunking of the engine somewhere beyond the bulkhead.

The reverberating sounds were enough to muffle the zipper being undone behind him, enough to cover the tears he had to get out of his system before he was taken somewhere his face was visible and the ship's sounds more muted.

Dad had taught him through example that it was okay to cry. Just so long as no one knew.

Dean didn’t try to stop the silent tears as he was spread open on the steps, unable to do anything but try not to slip down. He couldn’t decide if a cock pressing into him hurt more or less the second time around. Mostly he just knew it didn’t matter how bad it hurt.

His own hips jutted forward as his cock scraped against the stairs he knelt on. The fire in his groin grew more intense than he’d ever felt before.

The urgency combined with the chafing of the rope knotted tight over the center of his sac, forcing his swollen balls apart, let him forget nearly everything else even as the weight of another man pushed down on him.

He only vaguely acknowledged the scratchy, grey beard rubbing over his back as the man old enough to be his grandfather pounded into him. The come shot into him just mingled with the sticky mess that he’d already felt shifting inside him, leaking down his thighs.

“You’re in good shape now, son.”

Dean could only barely register that the man had again stood and was tucking himself back in. He remained face down on the stairs, his cock still aching and struggling to recover composure with the knowledge that the time for tears was up. The rest he’d just have to swallow down.

The man pulled him up from behind. They stood close enough that Dean could smell the faint hint of Old Spice over the fish-laden air. The strong grip didn’t release him until Dean found a steady footing.

“We’ll be shipping off again shortly. Up to the galley with you.”

A tentatively relieved sigh slipped from between Dean’s lips once the door again clattered shut, leaving him alone in the stairwell. Dean was shaking when he leaned back against the wall. He sunk down, but not so far he hit the floor. The last thing he wanted to do was sit. 

He didn’t know where the galley was, but he’d been pointed up the stairs and it was as good of a direction as any. The ship wasn’t that large and Dean needed a minute without hands on him just to catch his breath. Not to think.

Thirty seconds was all he could risk taking before stumbling back upright and heading up the short staircase. Ten seconds after that he was no longer alone.

The sound of footsteps falling heavy down at the far end of the hallway urged him on, triggering a fight or flight response that tightened his chest. He was stripped and bound with an unknown enemy approaching. It drove him to a quiet panic beyond thought or reason that years of practice let him suppress deep in his twisting gut.

His own footsteps quickened. Not fast enough.

A wolf whistle echoed over the pulsating rumble of the engines, bounced around the hall and turned Dean’s bound muscles rigid as stone.

“And here I thought I missed the opening show.”

He reluctantly looked behind him to see a tall man still in a drenched slicker and rain pants. The man didn’t hesitate in approaching Dean, using his greater height to loom over him. Dean backed against the wall as the man stripped off his plastic gloves and shoved them into his pocket. 

“You got better tits than all three of my ex-wives.”

Large fingers pinched one of Dean’s raised nipples, driven up firm by cold and tender from prolonged arousal. The man tugged, pinched the skin below, digging in his dirty nails.

“I got some fish hooks back at my bunk that’ll be making some fine piercings for these. Maybe a little something to attach down lower, too,” the man said with a sharp pinch to the slit of Dean’s engorged cock that left his eyes watering. “You come find me later if you want a little spending cash.”

Dean would do it. He didn’t like piercings. They looked stupid and shoving a metal rod into anywhere the guy was pinching would hurt like hell. He still preferred getting stabbed a hundred times over to having another cock shoved up his ass.

Everything already hurt in ways Dean hadn’t known they could. Hurt was exactly what would keep his mind here and in three weeks he could just tear out any piercings if they didn’t get ripped out on their own before then.

It was just skin. It would be worth the cash.

“Brian does some damn fine knot work. Learned it on his tour in Japan, from what I hear. You wouldn’t believe...”

The man rambled on in casual conversation as he led Dean down the hall. Dean couldn’t hear him, didn’t want to get to know the man or anyone else here who was planning on spending the next few weeks using him to get their rocks off.

All he wanted was his gun. He just couldn’t decide which of them he’d shoot first.

“And here’s the galley.”

Dean steeled himself as he stepped in. It was roomier than the wheelhouse, but still suffocating. He upgraded the rating to paralyzingly claustrophobic when his eyes scanned past the well-stocked simple kitchen to the table on the other side of the room.

It wasn’t the dinning table he had a problem with, but the group of men sitting and standing around it. He could tell by the looks in their eyes that it wasn’t the scent of canned chili reheating that had them milling around the galley expectantly.

The first mate stood in front of the table with his arms crossed, nodding as he looked Dean over. Dean turned his head away to try to find some visual safety from the onslaught of attention, but there was nowhere to hide.

Instead, he lifted his chin, a spark of defiance shining through the resignation in his eyes. Silently, he dared them to do their worst. He wanted to be held down, didn’t want the choice to truly be his own.

His heart still raced in his chest. It was buried panic and the straining pressure in his cock, the forming bruises and strain tearing at his shoulder blades. Pain endorphins running on overdrive, keeping him upright and his mind distracted.

Some long introduction was being giving. Dean knew no one was listening to it anymore than he was.

It wasn’t until a hand again tightened around his bound cock, giving a few quick jerks, that he came back to his body. Even then, he left his mind checked at the door.

Dean's hips rutted, the friction of the ropes ground over the dark, over-sensitized skin, gripping tighter than any hand could. His hands still ached to hurry release along, but the bindings held firm. He dropped his head back, focusing distantly on the ceiling rather than the room full of eyes on him.

There was no longer any attempt to silence the groans in his throat or the wriggling of his trembling body. If this was the show they wanted, Dean would surrender to it. It was only his body.

Someone was fussing with the bindings behind him. He didn’t bother to try to see what they were doing and barely registered the additional line of rope tickling the back of his calves.

All he could feel was his balls straining to tighten up against their bindings. The tightness inside him pulled at every overworked muscle in his body. He went rigid as his cock began to spurt, releasing a heavy load with the friction of the ropes alone.

His cock was still pulsing, still spilling come for a cheering crowd as he was bent forward. He dropped his head to his chest and struggled for air. The tugging on his shoulders as his arms were wrenched up behind his back didn’t help.

He slowly managed to tip his head to look over his shoulders.

Jeff had strung a rope through the bindings on his wrists. The other end looped through a hook in the ceiling at the end of the dinning table. It was pulled tight, trapping Dean bent over with his arms useless, face at waist level and ass jutted out.

“You need a break, just say the word. We got a warm blanket and all the booze you can drink,” Jeff said. “Just remembered you’re paid by the hour.”

Dean swallowed and nodded. He planned on staying put, swaying with the waves of the sea as long as his bladder could hold out. Or until his dick or arms fell off.

“All right, those due on deck make, it quick, the rest of you, enjoy.”

With those words, Jeff walked away and the first couple of men hopped from their seats. One took up position in front of Dean, the other behind, while everyone else closed in so tightly all Dean could see as he stared at the dingy, come-splattered carpet beneath him was a circle of boots waiting for their turn.

In just three weeks he could get back on land, find out if his father still wanted him, if his brother even cared he'd been gone. He could slap on a smile and get back to the hunt and pretend dick jokes were still funny. 

In just three weeks.


End file.
